


Dissatisfaction

by profmeteor



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: First Dates, M/M, Masturbation, Unrequited Crush, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-27 09:16:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2687381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profmeteor/pseuds/profmeteor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikey figuring out his feelings for Woody; a mix of IDW and 2012 characterization.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dissatisfaction

Woody is pretty much the greatest thing that’s ever happened to Mikey, mutation notwithstanding, and Mikey knows he should be way more grateful than he is. And he is grateful, and amazed every time Woody opens the back door to Rupert’s with his gorgeous white-toothed smile and his splay of blond curls and a steamy pizza in his rough hands, amazed that Woody can stand to even look at Mikey and amazed that he is so generous and funny and brave and smart and awesome, just the best.

Which is why he should be one-hundred-and-ten-percent grateful, instead of his feeble ninety. But — he knows he’s being ridiculous, he does, and he doesn’t want anything to change with Woody, not really, but he does, in a formless way that he can’t really pinpoint and that mostly has to do with wanting to touch Woody more, to pet back his hair and rub his neck and shoulders and thumb at his smile. He wants to know what Woody smells like, because the most he gets is faint whiffs of something underneath the smell of grease and smoke and cheese. He wants to duck somewhere quiet and private and just — look at him, and be looked at.

It’s easy to push that down when everything is falling apart, but things have settled down — well, as much as they ever settle down for them — in the last few months, and Mikey’s heart isn’t as preoccupied as it has been. He has space to turn around and stare at the parts of himself he’s been not-exactly-ignoring. And with the luxury of having all three of his brothers safe and sound, he also has the luxury of wanting.

*

So it’s almost closing-time for Rupert’s, and Mikey’s wearing his worn-down jacket and his favorite hat and lurking around just outside of the view of the back windows and wondering if Woody’s noticed that he hasn’t shown up yet. He has a litany of second-hand thoughts running through his head, things he’s heard his brothers say over and over again, things strangers have pelted them with and that never really bothered him once he realized some people would be their friends: Monster, no one would ever love us, why would she like me, freak of nature, ugly weirdos — and he’s fidgeting, half out of his mind.

Jumps half out of his shell when the back door opens. It’s Woody, pretending to be triumphant like they’ve been playing hide-and-seek all night, grinning and laughing at him in that low-rumbling way that he has when he’s just started. “Hey, Mikester!” he says, slipping out of the door. He’s haloed by the harsh yellow light of the restaurant, just like he was the first time Mikey saw him, and Mikey’s whole body pings, just the way it did that first time.

The reservations slough away from Mikey and he hurries forward with a little hop; they clasp hands, exchange the Secret Handshake — Woody’s hands are hot and his face is flushed from the heat of working inside, and Mikey doesn’t want to let go, but then the handshake is over and Woody is foisting a pizza into his arms. “I wasn’t sure you’d show up!” he says, grinning still. “I was worried somethin’ had happened. It’s not like you to miss Pizza Thursday, man!”

“I know.” Who knew pizza could be kind of a bother, but it definitely is, because he just wants to focus on the warmth that Woody is still radiating in gentle waves and the fluid way he moves, constantly in motion without seeming nervous or busy. Like he’s dancing, or flowing. “I got a little caught up is all, I kind of thought — I was wondering, anyway, or thinking about how we don’t ever really hang out except back here, which is radical and I wouldn’t change it for the world except — we’re best buds, right?”

“Of course,” he says, still smiling, except it’s different, expectant, “we’re BFFs, right? Best —”

“Food friends,” Mikey finishes. Woody runs a hand through his hair, which is distracting even in the dull light of the alleyway.

“So I was wondering about, when you get off, if you want to — hang out somewhere. There’s this abandoned construction site where we skate sometimes, oh, man, the shredding you can get in is amazing, or — or,” Woody shifting, softer but also more still, “I know tons of good places where you can see the whole city and everything, really quiet — or we could sneak into a movie theater? Or — “

“Say no more,” Woody says. Mikey’s heart does something between a flip and a lurch. “Tell you what, meet me back here in half an hour, okay? I don’t think your bros’ll be too happy if you let their pizza get cold.”

Half an hour — half an hour! Mikey doesn’t even try to resist the urge to jump, though he does keep his whooping in check, since he doesn’t want Rupert to barge out and get Woody in trouble. “Hell yeah! Half an hour — got it! Thanks for the pizza, man, like always, and, um, I — you’re the best, have I told you that?”

Woody claps a hand on Mikey’s shoulder, squeezes, and then, to Mikey’s utter delight, knocks the side of his head so the hat slips to one side. “You always do,” he says.

*

It’d take more than a blind man to miss Mikey’s energy — he’s not just glowing, he’s beaming, a beacon in the dark, but his brothers don’t have time to comment on it — he’s in and out with a hurried “Enjoy the pizza gotta go I’ve got a Thing don’t wait up!”

He’s not reading too much into it, either, he’s just so glad to be able to hang out with Woody and not have it be in fifteen-minute bursts or out of necessity or because of work but just because they can, and because they’re best friends, and because Woody is that kind of guy, the awesome kind of relaxed and groovy kind of guy who can ditch whatever plans he had for the night to spend it with Mikey. He makes it back to the alleyway ten minutes before the half hour is up, panting, grinning and hopping on the balls of his feet and flapping his coat so he can get some cooler air against his shell.

Woody steps out, talking over his shoulder as he does and slinging on a thin jacket, and then the door is shutting and he’s seeing Mikey and he’s grinning like Mikey’s the greatest thing he’s ever seen, and Mikey’s grinning back because he knows Woody’s the greatest thing he’s ever seen, and they climb up the fire escape without a word.

It’s the last time they’re quiet for two hours — they take their time traveling across the rooftops to one of Mikey’s favorite spots, Mikey helping Woody when the going gets tough, the two of them touching each other in a casual way that makes Mikey’s whole body glow and flush, arms brushing and Woody patting his back and shoulders and flicking his cheek, Mikey capturing him in his arms, petting his hair, squeezing his wrists. The air is cool, the city flickering below them — someone hollers out drunkenly and Woody and Mikey both shout back at the same time, then duck out of sight, laughing and knocking their heads together in their haste to stay hidden.

They come to a stop at a construction site that’s been on hiatus for years and climb until Woody has to stop, leaning against rebar and laughing nervously into the whipping wind. Without a word, they climb down a floor, then nestle together in the shield of some plywood, facing the Manhattan skyline and a crescent moon so white it could be a Cheshire’s grin. Woody opens his mouth, shuts it again, opens it — Mikey watches, transfixed, as the awe washes over him. Takes the opportunity to slide his fingers against Woody’s palm and shivers when Woody squeezes. Thinks that things couldn’t get better than this.

*

But when he gets home, he’s rife with restless energy. He mills about the empty living room, tosses a bunch of pizza boxes into the trash, moves every piece of furniture that he can a few inches to the right because it’ll annoy the piss out of his brothers when they wake up, then gives up and sulks his way into his room. It’s not until he flops onto the bed that he realizes what, exactly, the energy is — because straight away his hand goes between his legs, and a light goes off that lets him know that that was exactly what he needs.

He ends up fucking himself on his fingers so rough and fast that he’s come before he can even work up a proper fantasy — and it’s only afterwards that he realizes that he was really somewhere else, still, sitting up in an alcove with the wash of Woody’s hair resting on his shoulder and the smell of him thick in the air. “Oh, crap,” he mutters into his pillow. “Oh, man, I am never gonna hear the end of this.”

He rolls onto his back and shuts his eyes, letting himself drift into the idea of wanting Woody like that, of loving someone the way humans do in comic books and movies, the kind of love that sends people to noble deaths and that ends in long kisses in the rain. But that’s not right — that’s not really what he feels, doesn’t even begin to encompass the way he is suffused with light when he is with Woody. Besides, he would die for anyone under the right circumstances. That’s kind of the point of being a hero.

So instead, he lets himself imagine something more concrete: The press of Woody’s body against his, the warmth of his hand in Mikey’s, what that warmth might feel like on his thigh or between his legs. They could go to Woody’s apartment, wherever that is, and curl up on his bed, and touch each other and kiss until it was time for Woody to go back to work. He slides his hand between his legs and starts to rub at his sore cloaca, slow enough that pleasure shoots through his spine, and starts jerking off with his other hand.

Maybe he could wrap himself around Woody and pet his face and hair and hold him and rub against him — maybe that wouldn’t be too weird, because then they could just look into each other’s faces and let their bodies talk. Or maybe Woody would let him suck him off, so he wouldn’t have to deal with any of the weird shell stuff — Mikey wouldn’t mind that, taking him in his mouth and stroking his thighs and letting him rut into him.

And that’s enough — he dwells on that, trying to imagine how Woody’s naked skin would feel against his, remembering the warmth of his hands and the flush of his face, how smooth he is and how soft his hair, and comes again, arching up and whining.

He’s asleep before he can think too much about any of it, but he sleeps restlessly, dreaming of things just out of his reach.


End file.
